There are times when the strum of wind

shakes me, turns me nearly inside out.

The hidden skin on my neck awakens

as if your hand riffled my hair

or a drifting leaf grazed my hand

as we daydream on the rocks,

while below shines the silvered green mirror

of the lazy, wending river.

It’s not a startle of romance, nor its memory.

It’s a shy jumping up and spinning

of my spirit, jostled from sleepwalking.

My heart, bare ember, catches a gust

and it grows, it glows beneath

imperturbable clouds, this haunted world.

When alone I go, I wait for visitations of air

arriving from mountains, from sea,

my hair billowing, a net of sail filled,

and everything that makes up this small body

hears the call and I levitate far

beyond our words, beyond regret